Nights Beyond the Tracks
by The Cypress Scholar
Summary: "I loved her. I loved him too. I wanted them both desperately, but I had to choose only one...the harsh grey light of tomorrow was fast approaching...how soon it was, how so very soon..." KylexKenny, KylexBebe, KennyxKelly. Other pairings also.
1. Dedication

NIGHTS BEYOND THE TRACKS

DEDICATION

Dedicated to all those who walked the streets, scarves round their necks and dreamy longing in their minds, to those who played their roles in corners of inconspicuous houses on fly-by nights, where the magic was born and remained ever after in their ageing, desperate minds. To those whose art blossomed from their mouths and hands and hearts, those crawling out of the dirt of their purity and into a corrupt paradise. To those whose star rocketed high, burned briefly bright and then faded into an ignoble "happily"-ever-after.

This empty ballad is for you.


	2. The Lonesome Road

Chapter One: The Lonesome Road

Looking back on it, I made the wrong choice.

Being young and making bad decisions sucks…but hindsight is the one thing that claws at your heart in the darkness of your night. It makes you feel small, feel foolish, feel old and incomplete before your time. Hell is being locked forever in the future with your mind as a restless resting place for your regrets… a long, lonesome one-way street to nowhere.

Sounds so philosophical, doesn't it? I picked that up from him, way back then. It was quite remarkable how he became the person he was.

A flash of memory runs through my hazy mind and I see dirty blonde hair, the speckled orange parka and that indescribable, yet so meaningful smile. He stands in his coal-black boots in the white snow of a never-never land that once stood tall in Colorado and it seems that only yesterday I was in South Park, playing golf by moonlight and seeing tomorrow as another chapter in an endless book of youthful serenity.

I look above the picture of the blonde, frizzy-haired girl punctuated with a lipstick heart of affection, above the piles of books written by long-dead scholars, past the coffee cups within which civilizations of mould flourishing and at a yellowed, crumpled sketch, camouflaged amongst sticky notes and taped photographs.

A naked teenage boy stands with his back to the artist, beer can in one hand, cigarette in the other, staring out of a window onto a collection of constellations in the eternal, black firmament. At the bottom, a spidery signature reads: _To the guy who always has to overanalyze everything. K xxx._

I smile slightly, sadly, silently. And type.

It's been three years since I last saw him. Three long years with nothing but half-formed memories and vague anecdotes to sustain me through the long sleep of Harvard. Three years and I remember little of South Park but snow, surrealism and that dying ember that was a love affair in a slum across the tracks.

How did it all happen? Let's go back years and years, to when my world was young and we still believed in happy ever after. Back to the place I'm afraid to return to... South Park.

Kenny McCormick, that sad little boy who few ever noticed.

But I remember him.


	3. California Dreaming

CHAPTER TWO: CALIFORNIA DREAMING

"What I'd like to know is how a fag like Kyle managed to hook up with- ack!" droned the insolent, nasal voice of Eric Cartman behind me before being swiftly cut off by Stan punching him in the back of the head.

It was fifth period on a fresh, cold October day six years ago and we were languishing in a science class. I alone was the only one really paying attention; the rest of the class were quietly gossiping, as evidenced by Cartman's jibe. I ignored his remark and continued scribbling down the formula for ammonia. Up at the front of the class, Mr. Garrison tensely chalked the name _FRITZ HARBER_ in large white letters and punctuated it by smashing the stick against the hard board, covering the name in chalky dust.

"So, kids," he exhaled loudly, turning back to face us, "Fritz Haber was a German scientist responsible for the creation of ammonia, which is used as fertiliser. Thanks to his work, the First World War was extended by a good couple of years." He scowled at no-one in particular and then continued bitterly, almost to himself, "Two extra years in which Mr. Slave's grandfather could have been killed and his grandson never born. But oh no, that'd be too much to ask, wouldn't it? Just like a little _respect_ was apparently too much from him, the ass-munching faggot! I give seven years of-"

That was it. There was no stopping Mr. Garrison now. As he continued babbling, his voice steadily increasing in anger and volume, we all stared at him in bemusement. Garrison had been flaring up periodically for a couple of days, but few of us knew the exact reason for his rage.

In the years since third grade, the fates of Garrison and his class had become inextricably intertwined and whenever we moved up a year, destiny deemed it necessary for him to follow behind. Throughout the years, we had seen some pretty dramatic events unfold, but this was one of the most normal, which is ironically why it seemed so bizarre to us.

"Hey, Clyde," whispered the high voice of Wendy Testaburger, Stan's girlfriend, behind me, "You know these things; why is Mr. Garrison so upset?"

"Oh, I heard that it's something to do with Mr. Slave," answered Clyde in a hushed tone, not daring to take his eyes off the now hysterical teacher, "Apparently he ran off with an American Indian…Chief Thunder Thighs or some shit like that."

"Ah, right," replied Wendy, completely unsurprised by this revelation.

I said nothing, but turned to the index of my textbook, found the pages about Haber, and turned to them, educating myself as one does when one is an aspiring intellectual burdened with an unstable, multiple-personality disordered madman for a teacher.

After I finished a few moments later, an elegantly-crafted paper airplane glided gracefully through the air, did a small loop and landed with precision on my desk. I opened it up expectantly and received my just reward. In elegant, feminine writing, were the following words:

_I love you_.

I smiled and looked past Token to where the girl with frizzy, golden locks was sitting, looking right back at me with nothing but love in her bright, blue eyes. I smiled again and blew her a kiss. Behind me, I heard the sound of Cartman groaning in disgust and a squawk as Stan hit him again.

It had been a week since Bebe had asked me out, keeping me from running by pinning me against a locker, and I had immediately accepted. Bebe was everything a guy could ever ask for; beautiful, intelligent, ambitious, humorous and cheerful. I could not possibly have been happier, which naturally made Eric Cartman very unhappy indeed.

Cartman hadn't changed much since the fourth grade. He was taller and more big than fat, thankfully, but apart from that, everything was the same. He was still bigoted, ruthless, angry and demeaning. His mother was still a crack whore and he was still blissfully unaware of this very obvious fact. Yes, he was still an asshole, but somehow he was still our friend.

Stan had gone somewhat down the road of becoming the quintessential jock, but had thankfully retained the prodigal maturity and sensitivity that was lacking in the other members of the football team. We were still Super Best Friends (a registered trademark of the All-American Youth Experience), but had drifted apart a little from the inseparable days of our childhood. Stan had got back together with Wendy and was aggressively pursuing his dreams of national football stardom. I admired him greatly. He was full of confidence, handsome, gentle, yet incredibly powerful and whenever he exerted himself, huge mounds of muscle shifted laboriously underneath his tight sweater. It was both amazing and unnerving, but I was pleased for him. He knew where he was going in life and it seemed that nothing could stop him. He was as American as the Stars and Stripes.

And then there was Kenny. Kenny McCormick had changed somewhat since the fourth grade. These days, he virtually never died and he wasn't quite so filthy-minded. He was still quiet compared to the rest of us, but he always spoke up whenever he felt that the input of the impoverished or immortal was required, or when Cartman attempted to enlist him for his moronic endeavours. He still wore an orange parka which obscured his face, although he pulled the hood down more often these days and showed his face to the world. Apart from the fact that he now interacted with us more and had less crude jokes to make. he had remained largely static, the boy on the end of the other, more animated three.

I turned and looked at him, sat at his desk next to Bebe. He was scribbling something in his science book, the faint lip-bite of concentration and narrowing of ice-blue eyes complementing his messy blonde hair perfectly. I had always been fascinated by the enigma that was Kenny McCormick in a way that went beyond simple curiosity. Whereas Cartman opened his mouth and the world lost all doubt, Kenny did not let loose his tongue enough to give us the impression that he was a fool and although certain elements in our class believed him to be (step forward, the _real_ fool, Eric!), I was to learn that Kenny was far from a simple, modern-day American peasant, despite his white-trash background.

"…and shoulda driven them off the fucking continent altogether, but are they grateful! _NO_!" finished Mr. Garrison, his breathing heavy, his eyes finally returning to the world around him.

Silence."Mr. Garrison?" Butters eventually asked, raising his hand, "Is this gonna be on the test next week?"

"What?" asked Garrison, confused, "No, no, it isn't. Okay class, I think that's about it for today. Don't forget your assignment for Monday; a 1500 word essay on which, if any, of the characters of _That 70s Show_ is most likely to die of a heroin overdose as a white-trash adult."

The school bell shrilly rang and we began packing away for the day, as this was our last lesson. As we filed out the door, Mr. Garrison muttering angrily about firebombing reservations, Bebe caught up to me and handed me a neatly-printed piece of paper, with the handwritten script: _Kyle xxx_, in gel-pink on the back. I turned it over and printed in yellow and pink on a black background were the words: _Bebe's House Party. Friday 7th, 7:30 to Late_. I looked up to thank her, but she had already left to give invites to the others and I was left holding the ticket with a smile of excited anticipation for Friday.

After retrieving our bags from our lockers, the four of us; Cartman, Stan, Kenny and I left the heavy warmth of the school and, walking into the icy blast of the outside world, we headed for home.

"So dudes," I began, shouldering my rucksack, already patterned with frost from the arctic sky, "You're all coming to Bebe's party, right?"

"Sure am," replied Cartman, "It sure is useful when your friend's got a popular hoe for his woman."

"Shut your face, fat-ass!" I snapped, "She isn't a hoe!"

"Ay!" retorted Cartman, awash with outrage, "I'm not fat. I'm just, er, all that and a little bit extra!"

"A little!" quipped Stan, "Dude, you should be in orbit around the sun!" which made Kenny burst in fits of laughter behind his parka

"Ay!" Cartman almost shrieked, "I will not stand here and tolerate the assload of crap that-"

"Enough, enough!" I consoled, waving my arms, my anger towards Cartman cooling in the falling flakes, "Anyway, after the party, why don't we crash back at my place and have a few beers?"

This the three of them agreed upon and I promised that I would try to arrange it with my parents. We walked on, talking vaguely of this and that as the snow fell around us. Five or so minutes after my suggestion, we arrived at my house and I bid farewell to my friends. Standing only briefly on the steps to observe the three trudging on through the falling frost, I went inside and shut out the elements.

The warmth of the house was very refreshing. Inside, I could hear my mom humming to herself happily in the kitchen. After throwing my coat expertly onto the rack, I shouted, "Mom, Dad, I'm home!"

As I walked into the kitchen, I saw Mom virtually dancing around, scrubbing pots and drying them to the rhythm of her own footsteps. Dad was sitting at the table, reading the newspaper. He looked up and greeted me with an excited, "Hey Kyle, guess what's happening this weekend?"

Confused, I asked, "What? What's happening this weekend?"

He beamed at me and folded his paper in half neatly, before setting his clasped hands on it and answering my question, "Your mother and I have decided that we're going to buy a summer house in California. How would you like that?"

I was not particularly enthralled by the prospect, since I didn't see the point of another house that we'd barely use , but I didn't want to disappoint my dad, so I replied exuberantly, "That sounds great, Dad! But isn't California really expensive? Can we afford it?"

"Sure we can," replied my father exuberantly, "Business has been great recently! Who would have thought there were so many crimes being committed?"

"Oh L.A.!" Mom chanted ecstatically, "So much shopping to be done, so many celebrities to see!"

"Right," Dad nodded, considerably less enthusiastically, "We're going to go and check out the places there this weekend. We're gonna leave Friday afternoon and come back Sunday evening."

"No, Dad!" I protested in horror, "Bebe's got a party on Friday and she will _kill _me if I don't go!"

My mom stopped prancing around and began one of her trademark stern lectures, "Young man, you don't have a choice. You should be grateful for the chance to go to California and maybe see that delightful !"

"Now hold on a minute, Sheila," intervened Dad, "What will Kyle do there except sit around and be bored? He's smart, sensible and old enough to take care of himself. This'll be a good chance for him to learn to be independent. Besides, it's his little lady's party."

"But what if something happens to him?" asked Mom, her voice slightly hysterical with overzealous concern.

"What's going to happen to him?" Dad retorted, "He's old enough and knows how to defend himself. Besides, South Park's a quiet town. Nothing will happen."

Mom looked as though she was going to protest again, but finally subsided and nodded her head reluctantly, "Fine, you can stay. But I want you to phone every day and let me know how you are."

I immediately agreed, knowing well that once she was let loose in the shopping malls of Los Angeles, seeing coked-up B-listers she would quickly forget all her worries about me. My dad winked at me and I thanked him for trusting me, although slightly confused at his description of a fully-formed sixteen year old girl as a "little lady".

As I walked upstairs, I started getting pumped at how my parents' absence would make the night so much better. No Ike complaining about the noise, no parents banging on the door, telling us to shut up. We could do whatever we pleased and I would still have forty-eight hours to clean up any mess.

I walked into my room and threw my bag onto the bed. As I sat down at the computer to finish some homework, I looked at the picture beside the monitor. It had been taken about two years earlier when the four of us had gone to a theme park, snapped just before we got on the log flume. It was the epitome of our mutual relationships; me and Stan arms around each others' shoulder, smiling cheerfully; Cartman standing next to us, looking at us with a sliver of sneering contempt; Kenny standing off slightly from us, just smiling vaguely at the camera, not involved, not really interacting with any of us.

I snorted with laughter. This Friday, I vowed I would unlock the boy behind the orange parka hood and bring him firmly into the group, rather than leave him out as the slightly mysterious straight man of the group.

Funny how it worked out really.


End file.
